


Sinner's Heat (Gold)

by SilverBird13



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Depression, M/M, More or Less One-Sided E/R, Smoking, Swearing, discussion of alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverBird13/pseuds/SilverBird13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a cold, shitty day and Grantaire was in a cold, shitty mood.</p><p>Or, Grantaire angsts, smokes, and waxes (sarcastically) poetic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sinner's Heat (Gold)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I basically never write E/R simply because I never know what to write for them. This came to me out of nowhere, more or less. I tried very hard not to romanticize R or his problems, but let me know if anything's off.

It was a cold, shitty day and Grantaire was in a cold, shitty mood.   
  
Courf was wrong (as usual), and black coffee and a shower had only lead to a very passionate session with his hand instead of a solid 2 hours of sleep before his first class.  
  
(Well, it’s not his fucking fault the steam of the stall and sharpness of the coffee reminded him of Enjolras.  Really, it could happen to anyone.)  
  
Thus, head pounding, he determinedly walks past the building housing his Russian History class and makes his way towards the park on the outskirts of campus.  
  
*****  
  
The park (or at least that’s what Grantaire assumes it is), is overgrown beyond belief, with only a rusty metalwork fence keeping it from spilling over onto the street.  Grantaire flings his bag over to the other side before finding a foothold and throwing himself over as well (a great headache cure, really).  
  
Wincing, he checks himself for any bodily damage, though if that fence gives him iron lung or some shit, he’s not sure he’ll seek treatment.  Finding nothing immediately wrong, he flops under a nearby tree, dragging his bag over and beginning the search for his cigarettes and a lighter.  
  
True story:  This lighter was a gift from Enjolras.  He’d stayed too late in the library (as usual), and Grantaire had been smoking outside, trying to figure out how exactly to justify _yet another_ painting of the _same subject_ to his professor.  Enjolras had stopped, they’d smoked in relative silence, and Enjolras had left, dropping his lighter on his way past.  
  
 _“Hey, you dropped your lighter!”_  
  
 _“Keep it-yours is dying anyways.  I’ve got too many as it is.”_  
  
Anyone else would’ve kept the shiny red lighter, used it up, tossed it away.    
  
Fuck them.  
  
Grantaire let himself hold it for a moment, rubbing his thumb across the pristine surface before digging into his bag again and retrieving some random yellow piece of shit he’d found in the hallway this morning.  It took a few clicks to start, but it was better than having to waste the fluid in the other one (having to waste anything of Enjolras’s, who was always so purposeful).    
  
Harmonizing with Grantaire’s shitty lighter are his shitty cigarettes, bought cheap since a pack rarely lasted 48 hours in his possession.  He sticks one between his lips and pointedly, purposefully thinks of nothing as he lights it, sucking in to keep the flame alive as the paper begins to shrivel and the smoke reaches his lungs.  
  
Unlike most regular smokers, Grantaire has a strange appreciation for his habit.  Some, like Bahorel and Eponine, just see it as another chore, something to do before heading to work or class or a meeting, or there’d likely be broken dishes or a sharp word. Grantaire, on the other hand, relishes his cigarettes.  Alcohol was a delightful pain-in-the-ass, but the humble cigarette was gentle, warm, filling in a way ten baguettes or twenty shots could never be.  Vodka and gin and beer demanded shame, explanation, and planning (Garbage was taken out on Tuesdays and Fridays, backpacks could hide ten empty bottles at a time).  Cigarettes asked for nothing except ten minutes and a few dirty looks from passers by. True, alcohol lifted him better than cigarettes ever could, but sometimes blunt, unlovable filth was an easier pill to swallow than something others could enjoy without seeing the corruption within.  He exhales, lets the smoke curl up over his head and into the dark sky above. 

 _Enjolras was the clear, pure flame of the red lighter, hidden in an equally striking carapace.  Grantaire was the tainted, acrid smoke from his cigarette, annoying the general population with it’s very presence._  
  
Grantaire’s head snaps up.  He rifles through his bag again, dragging out his sketchbook and charcoal.    
  
_‘Same subject’, my ass._


End file.
